| Diary entry. |
[28 Oct 2003|05:25pm] |
Thoreau
Dear journal,
The hospital wing is bloody boring. No one is here; Abner spends as much time here as he can, but he's got his classes to attend to, and I know that there's something going on between him and Poe even if he won't tell me. I don't want to intrude anymore than I already have, and I do not want to seem jealous. I'm not. Really, I'm not jealous.
Well. Maybe a little. But that's just because six months worth of hapless pining and what not doesn't exactly disappear overnight. Sigh. I'm glad that I've got Famke with me; he makes me feel like a completely different person. The sort of person I'd like to be all the time. I envy him his gift to change people for the better.
I still feel so sluggish. No one's told me what made me sleep for an entire day, or why the Slytherin commons flooded.
Oh god, my potions ingredients! I left everything in the.. goddamnit..
-David Thoreau Vanet
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| Shoutouts to the community people. (: |
[24 Oct 2003|11:41pm] |
OOC post, yes, but I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who hung out in the continuity tonight. Huge thank you to Carmen for redesigning the place just for me; I don't deserve that, chica, but I appreciate it all the same. Thanks to Camikins for the drawings, they were lovely. (I liked yours too, Carmen!) Thanks to Shena for the rose--I really appreciate it, it's great.
^_^ Thanks to everyone who sat with me and showered me with cookies. I'll be fat until the day I die now.
I think this is probably one of my favorite birthdays, just becase of you lot. <33 to all of you!
-Lizzi
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| Letter to Blaise |
[21 Oct 2003|07:31pm] |
Thoreau
Dear Blaise,
Wow. I certainly hadn't expected to hear from you ever again, Blaise, but God knows I haven't forgotten about you. One can't care that deeply for someone, then simply dissasociate oneself from that person. It isn't humanly possible, though I've tried a few times. With my mother, specifically.
It is good to hear from you, though. I've thought about you a lot, even if my feelings have changed. I can't say that I don't still feel something, but I'm not in love with you anymore. I hope it doesn't hurt for you to read this. I never wanted to hurt you, Blaise, but it's hard for me to feel remorse for you when you're the one who walked out on me.
Regardless, I'd like to have a friendship with you. You know things about me that not even Abner Kequet knows--and he probably knows me better than anyone, outside of Famke Isador. I don't want the bond we once had to go to waste.
Best,
Thoreau Vanet
(( Oh the irony. ;.; It hurts. ))
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| Thoreau Vanet's notebook: |
[19 Oct 2003|01:56pm] |
Needed ingredients:
1) asphodel
2) wormwood
3) Erumpent fluid
4) Abyssinian shrivelfig
5) bicorn horn
6) gillyweed (preferably Caribbean strand)
7) Jobberknoll feathers
8) scarab beetles (live--must contact Constance Brodey)
9) ginger root
10) armadillo bile (sorry, Tipsy)
Stole the shaft of a Griffin tail feather from Snape's class room during Potions yesterday. Hope he didn't notice.
Still need to begin revisions work on Wit-Sharpening Potion; last attempt resulted in combustion. Maybe less sage next time..
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[18 Oct 2003|07:58pm] |
be sorted @ nimbo.net
(( Adrian and Thoreau are insulted. XD ))
(( -Liz ))
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| Diary entry. |
[17 Oct 2003|08:34pm] |
| [ |
music |
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The Alan Parsons Project |
] |
Holden
My two house guests have settled in nicely, I suppose. It took Monsieur Erise a day or so to acclimate himself to the walkways on the ceilings and the trapdoor in his bathroom; I think my great-grandfather might have frightened him when he walked through the bed yesterday morning during his post-mortem constitutional.
I'm hesitant to inform my brothers that my shoulder injury (thank you, Dorian Vanet) is taking longer than is healthy to mend. I've gotten in touch with our family Healer and consulted him in regards to how to treat it, but at the moment I am simply using an illusion charm and taking many Blood-Replenishing potions before I sleep and before meals. I am concerned, ostensibly. Part of me is certain that Sloane knows, possibly Adele as well. They are astute children and Sloane has proven on various occasions that my Occlumency skills are less adroit when I am ill. Chandler has been casting me suspicious glances in the corridors as well.
Sterling Graham is still missing. I can't contact him via our 'normal way' and no one with whom I have corresponded has communicated with him since our last meeting with Lucinda Sidious in the Leaky Cauldron. I am concerned.
No. I am more than concerned.
If any harm has come to him, I am afraid that I will have to take drastic measures. A Brodey does not often raise his wand in the offensive, but when situational ethics call for retaliation, I am only too happy to oblige.
-Holden Brodey
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| Diary entry |
[12 Oct 2003|11:21am] |
Sartre
Well, for someone who's lived, died, and then come back to life again all in under five days, I feel remarkably chipper.
The Brodey manor scares the everloving shit out of me, but I don't know why I was expecting something more normal. There are walkways on the walls and on the ceiling, corridors that extend through perfectly good windows and what looks like a train that runs along the top floor. I have no idea why. The Brodey manor isn't as big as Hogwarts or anything. Maybe it's like some sort of modified Floo Network; I wouldn't be surprised, I see strange wizards filtering in and out of the main lobby at all hours.
Chandler and Cecile (Vanet) Brodey were very kind to me when I arrived. They showed me in, showed me a place where I could put my things, and even provided me with this little notebook when I said that I wanted to have something on hand with which to record my thoughts. That was nice of them, especially considering that they don't even know who I am.
But Jesus Christ, if I hear that train conductor portrait shouting, "All aboard!" one more time, I'm going to bludgeon it with an ax.
Teague arrived late last night with Alistair, and he said something about Holden Brodey being injured. I'll have to go check on him sometime later in the afternoon.
I'm just glad that Teague and Alistair are all right, right now.
-Sartre Erise
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| Letter to Abner. |
[08 Oct 2003|11:27pm] |
Sartre
Dear Abner Kequet,
I don't know if you remember me, but I certainly remember you. Your little brother has been a complete angel for me to look after since we last met, and I have to admit that it's going to be very difficult for me to give him back to you after you complete your final term at Hogwarts.
Unfortunately, this letter is written containing some rather disheartening news. I don't want you to panic, although I'm certain you will. Alistair has gone missing. I'm not entirely sure of the circumstances surrounding his disappearance, other than it took a divine miracle or something to make it possible for me to write this letter to you now. If we ever meet again in person, I assure you that I will give you the fully detailed story.
All I can say is that Teague assures me that he will sort out the situation with Alistair--and soon. I know that Thoreau doesn't have much confidence in him, maybe even hates him, but Thoreau has met with him all of four times in his life. I, on the other hand, have been living with him, off and on, for the better part of the summer. I trust him with my life.
In the meantime, I'd like to make a request of you: Look after Thoreau and his little troupe, yourself included. You are in more danger than you are aware.
Sincerely,
Sartre Erise
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| The Murder |
[07 Oct 2003|02:33am] |
The door slammed sharply behind Teague Nicodey, and for a time, all Sartre could do was glare at his reflection in the mirror. He glared at the lines of his feminine face, at the smeared black eyeliner that refused to go on straight thanks to a trembling hand, at the curl of frustration appearing on his upper lip as he realized that it was an effort in futility to try to apply the makeup properly. With an angry growl, he broke the pencil in half and flung it violently at the wall, before whirling and storming over to the corner of the room near the shower.
He sank down against the wall and drew his legs up against his chest, arms winding around them slowly. Sometimes, he could not understand Teague at all. Of course he was in love with the man.. only fools would dispute that fact. It hurt, physically, to separate himself from Teague for too long, and it only hurt more to know that they had parted on bad terms.
Sartre hated to let the sun set on an argument. Especially with someone he was in love with.
Alistair's startled cries should have alerted him to the disturbance immediately, but Sartre was so immersed in his own self-loathing and self-pity that for a moment, all he heard was the dull ringing of the infant's tears. Then, when their true meaning finally registered with him, when he was getting to his feet to open the door and placate the child's cries--the door exploded inward on him.
Rather, it didn't explode, but was slammed open, and Sartre felt the first hex hit him before he could scream. He was blown back against the wall sharply, landing hard on his back; he was sure that he felt something shatter, was sure that he was paralyzed, but to his surprise he found he could bend his knee..
Alistair's cries ended abruptly, and Sartre didn't know just what had happened, only that the infant was suddenly lost to him. Something kept him from reaching out with his Seer skills. Dread filled him.. no, the baby couldn't die, it wasn't possible..
A sharp kick to his stomach brought him back to reality. Sartre's entire world spun before him, tinged red as something vital inside his fragile body tore. That steel-toed boot connected with his jaw this time, breaking it mercilessly. A hand snared in his hair, jerked him to his feet, and flung him into that large, elegant mirror. His head struck it sharply, causing the glass to crack and splinter and shatter.
Adrian Vanet gave him a rough shove towards the bathtub and forced him beneath the water. There were no words, no shouts of protest--just flailing limbs and a sinking feeling in Sartre Erise's heart that all of those nightmares, all of those dreams, all of those visions of his impending death were more than just dreams.. Teague was wrong, each violent depiction of his death wasn't just a nightmare after all--
"Avada kedavra," came the muffled voice from above the water, and Sartre saw no more.
Teague..
--
(Don't kill me. :x Please.)
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| Oh my. :x |
[28 Sep 2003|06:35pm] |
Thoreau
Dear journal,
I, um, tried to write a poem.
It didn't really work, but I wrote it anyway.
I thought I'd write a poem
About this boy I met at school.
He's got really pale eyes
And isn't really cool,
But he understands what I mean
When I say that I'm in pain.
And he doesn't try to sugarcoat
Things that should be plain.
I thought I'd write a poem
About this boy who makes me smile.
He's the sort of fellow who
Makes living here worth while.
I make no claim to poetic finesse
So my phrases will be quaint,
But watching him watching me
Makes me prone to faint.
I thought I'd write a poem
About this boy who is perfect.
But as you can see, I've failed to convey
Just how perfect he can be.
I ought to burn the thing.
So, yes. This is about a boy named Famke Isador. And he makes me feel like a little twelve-year-old with a crush. Except I'm not twelve, and this feels a lot more like suicide than a crush. God, did I ever get butterflies in my stomach when I looked at Blaise?
-David Thoreau Vanet
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| Posteee.. |
[24 Sep 2003|10:41pm] |
Sterling
Rented a small, temporary flat in Wimbledon. Christ, but Muggles jack up the pricess on residences to sinful heights.
A few Aurors have been poking about lately, but none have made an attempt to approach the dwelling. I'm not sure if this is a good or a bad thing. Holden and Chandler are trying to run interference back at the Ministry of Magic, squelching rumors and what not. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it's rumors--particularly if they're true.
Being a Muggleborn Death Eater isn't a walk in the park, especially if you don't support the organization you're about three weeks away from dying for. God damn the Imperius Curse, God damn the Cruciatus Curse, and God damn me for thinking that I could protect Sartre by selling my soul to Voldemort. Holden, I should have listened to your advice. It would have made things so much simpler, wouldn't it?
I received an anonymous letter from a Polish fellow who's been tailing Adrian Vanet.. who supposedly has been hiding out around the Nicodey manor as of late. If I didn't want Adrian dead more than I want Teague Nicodey dead, then I would applaud the man for what he's attempting to do. But Vanet is the one who had my little cousin's apartment trashed. He's the one who had him cursed.
I've never liked the Vanets. Or any other pure blood family for that matter, save for the Brodeys. I'm not sure anyone can dislike the Brodeys.
Lights out time. Someone just Apparated near my room.
-Sterling Graham
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| Diary entry. |
[23 Sep 2003|12:09am] |
Thoreau
Dear journal,
It was my birthday on the 21st--not that anyone noticed, save for Kala. She got me a lovely little silver locket that has a picture of her in it and a little mood type dial thing. (I'm not very good with descriptions right now, can you tell? Bickering in the commons again.) There's another space in the locket for me to put another photograph. I don't know; would it look wrong if I had a picture of Abner in there too? He'd ask questions anyway.
I don't want to bother writing about the things that have been happening over the last two weeks. Blaise is avoiding me like the plague, go figure, Kala has obtained a charming stalker, I still can't get in touch with Sartre or that older fellow of his. Whatsisname. Nicodey, Teague Nicodey. If that prat did anything to him, I'll.. probably get my ass kicked trying to hex him. God, I hate being inept at charms sometimes.
Letter from my dad, Adrian Vanet, came earlier in the week. And after everything that's happened.. I need to talk with Abner. I need to know.
-David Thoreau Vanet
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| Letter to Kala Warrington |
[13 Sep 2003|05:09pm] |
Dear Kala,
I'm sorry to hear about Clarie. I never really knew her, but lots of people certainly were upset to learn that she was no longer alive. I hope that she is in a better place, wherever she is now. Perhaps you should take comfort in knowing that everything that upset her while she was alive can never hurt her again.
As for Blaise and myself? Well, there -is- no more Blaise and myself. I suppose he couldn't handle the thought of being with just one person for the long run. Maybe I scared him off when I told him that I loved him. What hurts so much is that... for a while, while we were together, I could have sworn that he loved me too. Just by the look in his eyes and the way he held my hand. Maybe I'm just dillusional.
I don't want to discuss it very much. I talked through my pain with Famke--he is very helpful, and I appreciate all the support he's given me. Sometimes I think he understands me better than Abner ever did.
I've got some more Potions revisions awaiting my attention, love, so I'll have to cut this letter short. Once again, I'm very sorry about your loss. I'm sure Clarie was a wonderful person.
-Thoreau
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| Hm.. |
[10 Sep 2003|10:13pm] |
Thoreau
Dear journal,
It certainly didn't take him long to replace me, did it? Coming into the common room is like slowly extracting each of the toe nails from my feet with tweezers now; he's all over that Talvin bloke. Committment? Rubbish. I doubt he ever loved me.
God knows that I still love him. Blaise, I hope you're fucking happy now.
I haven't seen Abner in a few days. I'm getting worried; he isn't up in the dorms anymore, and I checked out the library and all of the other obscure hiding spots that he's been known to cower in. Even that little room where I found Furu that one time.. Nothing. It's as if he's completely vanished off of the campus. Come to think of it, I haven't seen much of Oscar either.
Where are they?
-David Thoreau Vanet
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| Diary entries. |
[04 Sep 2003|09:37pm] |
Sartre
I lost my job. I lost my apartment. I lost somewhere between 60 and 80 confidential Ministry of Magic Auror files. I lost some fairly precious family heirlooms that I can never get back.
I've lost everything.
Sathe, where are you when I need a shoulder to cry on?
-Sartre Erise
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Thoreau
Dear journal,
I thought I was doing everything right. I thought that for once in my life, I was actually making someone happy not because it was expected of me, but because it was something that I wanted to do, to show how much I loved someone. How much I loved him.
What did I do wrong? Why am I alone again?
...God, but those pain numbing potions from when that Death Eater sliced my arm open are looking very attractive. Maybe I'll just guzzle them all down now.
-David Thoreau Vanet
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| Profiles. (OOC post) |
[03 Sep 2003|09:14pm] |
Holden Brodey
Age: 29
Gender: Male
Sexual orientation: Whatever he feels like at the moment.. though he really doesn't have a sex drive, per se.
Height: 6'3"
Lives in: Elfsgrove, UK (Wizarding settlement)
Occupation: Artist/Photographer for the Quibbler
Sterling Graham
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Sexual orientation: Straight. Wow. Let's all gasp at Liz and her ONE STRAIGHT MALE CHARACTER.
Height: 6'2"
Lives in: Toulouse, France
Occupation: Used to own a piano shop and write music independently, but has been more or less moving about frequently since being forced to become a Death Eater.
They might be posting regularly. Depends on my mood.
-Liz
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| Diary entry. |
[03 Sep 2003|12:27am] |
Thoreau
Dear journal,
Ghosting over many a detail, I pretty much rendered that fonging Death Eater Cerv's wand useless. God, I do so love being good in Potions. Call me arrogant, but I love it. And if he so much as touches a hair on Arissta's head, or on Abner's, I'll waylay his testicles all the way to the City of Dis and back.
..You think I'm joking.
Ack, I'd better stop getting so.. erm.. enthused while writing. I had a nightmare last night, and Blaise didn't get a wink of sleep. I apparently kept him awake tossing and turning. Poor dear.. I'm amazed he tolerates me sometimes.
Oh yes, I forgot. Blaise and I are back at Hogwarts. I can't tell you how happy I am to be back in the company of my closest friends--and to have Blaise here with me. Some day, I want to tell him everything about my life. He knows the important things; about my childhood, and about what I used to feel for Abner. But more importantly, he knows what I feel for him. And he knows that I want no one else but him.
God, but if only I'd gotten that security from my family. Good thing I ended up in the right spot while looking for love in all the wrong places.
-David Thoreau Vanet
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| A scene in the Leaky Cauldron |
[02 Sep 2003|02:55am] |
Sterling Graham and Holden Brodey
They slipped in, for the most part unnoticed. So many tentants drifted in an out of the Leaky Cauldron that it was hard for Tom to keep them straight anymore. But he recognized Holden Brodey's blood red hair and misty smile, recognized Sterling Graham's chic black overcoat and the bizarre fedora that tipped itself forward over his dark blue eyes; they'd been frequenting the tavern ever since they were old enough to see over the bar.
Not that Tom had even considered serving them anything..
They took up their usual spots beside the fireplace. Tom didn't need to hear their order to know what they wanted; he brought out two butterbeers for them, then left them to their privacy.
Their voices were soft. They discussed all sorts of things; Sterling's mission trip across Asia, his piano shop in Toulouse, Sidhe's funeral. They discussed Holden's work for the Quibbler and how much of a joke the magazine truly was, his younger brother Sloane, who would be starting his first year at Hogwarts this year. Pleasantries, safe topics, carefully avoiding the real reason they had met in the tavern.
Holden's gaze dropped to Sterling's left forearm, where it lingered; those cataract blue eyes saw nothing but black fabric, but both he and Sterling knew what that fabric was covering. Gradually, their eyes met again. Holden didn't say a word; his face was as inscrutable as it ever was, nebulous and infinite.
Sterling winced. "It wasn't my choice," he said softly. "You know as well as I how deep the influence of the Dark Lord runs in every wizard alive."
"I know," Holden answered simply.
Silence fell between them again. That happened often with true Seers. Words were not always necessary, as unguarded thoughts and bared souls were always far more reliable sources of information. An errant thought was rarely dishonest, and a soul bore the scars of lie and truth alike. Holden perused Sterling's mind like an open book, turning through pages and chapters as though reading a story. He studied thoughts and dreams and goals, and could feel Sterling's nimble mental fingers doing the same to his mind. It was a familiar ritual, one that the two of them had often practiced during their years together at Hogwarts. It had been ten years since his graduation for Sterling, twelve for Holden.
Familiarity was such a welcome thing.
"Can you forgive me, Holden?" he asked so softly that, for a moment, he wondered if perhaps he had not spoken at all, but imagined it.
Holden's reply was instantaneous. "Of course. To protect my cousin, I would have done the same." Sterling smiled.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but the burning of the Dark Mark on his forearm lessened. And it had nothing to do with Lord Voldemort's mood. That in itself, Sterling thought, was a triumph.
~
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| Diary entries. |
[01 Sep 2003|11:23pm] |
Sartre
Nothing of significance happened today. Alistair nearly said my name, which caused me to tear up and run out to the store to buy him a new plushie. Now he's got two toys to drool all over--that wyvern Teague bought him a month or so ago and a little gryffe.
Sterling came to visit me last night and earlier today. He brought the Brodey brothers (Holden and Chandler) with him. I'm almost ashamed to admit that I read the Quibbler on a regular basis, but I was rather intrigued to discover that Holden Brodey is a photographer/artist for the magazine. I flipped through a few pages while they were over, and he really is quite good. Granted, it's rather obvious that some of the photographs have been tampered with by the editors to make realistic things look absolutely, undoubtedly fantastic, but you can tell that the original negatives were beautiful.
I'm not really sure what Chandler's profession is, but Sterling revealed some disconcerting information to me after they left. Chandler is married to Cecile Vanet, Adrian Vanet's sister. Apparently, Cecile still dabbles in the Dark Arts.. but she is a Vanet. I have yet to hear of a Vanet who did not muck around in that field. That still makes me wonder if perhaps Chandler does the same.
Sterling seems a little on edge today. I'm not sure why. Almost as disturbing is Teague's reaction to a letter he received in the mail. He left not long ago to go post a reply.. Ah well.
Oh crap, pasta's burning!
-Sartre Erise
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| A letter to Teague Nicodey. |
[01 Sep 2003|08:40pm] |
Adrian Vanet
Hello, Nicodey.
Fancy discovering that you're shacked up with a man. I always knew there was something a little queer about you.
That isn't why I've written you, unfortunately. I just wanted to give you a little warning before Bowden and I pay your friend a visit. I'm watching you. I could have easily slipped into his apartment while you were at the cemetery earlier today. All it would have taken on my part is a deception charm, and his blood would have been coloring the walls a pretty share of crimson.
So. You do me a favor, and I'll leave the little queer alone. Do we understand each other?
-Adrian
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